


A Sense of Propriety

by sweetcupncakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Comeplay, I Spend too Much time thinking about Top!John, M/M, Possessive John, Sapiosexuality, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Kink Meme, Top John, Virgin Sherlock, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcupncakes/pseuds/sweetcupncakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock begins stirring, but John places a hand in the middle of his back.  </p><p>“Be still.  Just--” John’s mouth waters a little at the sight of the whitish fluid and he clears his throat, “Hold on.”</p><p>Sherlock looks over his shoulder and meets John’s eyes in momentary bafflement before something like recognition rolls across his features.  The familiar blend of smugness and deduction, and he snuffles down against a pillow.<br/>-------------------------</p><p>Based on a BBC Sherlock Kinkmeme Prompt</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sense of Propriety

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Психология ревности и измены (A Sense of Propriety)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000110) by [EugeniaB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EugeniaB/pseuds/EugeniaB)



Based on <http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129013510#t129013510>

 _(Dear anonymous kink-poster, have some PWP.)_ Also, I have no idea to link that URL in a less unseemly fashion.  My technological aptitude begins and ends at typing and re-blogging Tumblr posts.  I'm mid-twenties and fairly certain my grandmother has a better concept of html than I have.  

Focus on pRon rather than my failure to assimilate into the 21st century.

* * *

 

 

John had accepted early in his and Sherlock’s friendship that Sherlock was unobtainable, and John had absolutely no desire to tip the scales in favor of a relationship Sherlock was not interested in.  John thought he would be perfectly content to play the quietly worshipful audience to Sherlock’s omneity.  

He’d thought wrong.

 

Sherlock saunters through the door of 221B at nearly half three in the morning smelling of pub and cigarettes.  John had been texting him the entire night to no avail, jittery with concern, indian takeaway growing colder in its plastic container at Sherlock’s spot at the table.

“Where in God’s name have you been?” John shouts, pacing in front of Sherlock who extracts himself from his coat,  John’s fists clenching and unclenching on their own accord.  

Sherlock has the audacity to roll his eyes like a petulant adolescent, as if John is the one being unreasonable.  As if there aren't dozens of criminals in London just waiting for a chance to get a bit of their own back from Sherlock Holmes:  World’s Only Consulting Detective.  Last time Sherlock ran off by himself he’d come back with two broken ribs and a four centimeter long gash in his calf.  John stitched the bloody thing closed, angry words hissing between his teeth along with, _“God, sorry, tell me if I’m hurting you.”_

 

“I was questioning a potential murder suspect.  Black Widow sort of ordeal spanning across three continents.  I was in a _pub,_ John.  We were surrounded by people, she was hardly going to have me snuffed in the middle of a populated area.”  Sherlock explains, begins unwinding his scarf from his neck.   As usual, John’s eyes immediately dart to the column of creamy skin, except this time his breath catches in his chest.  Fury bubbles in the pit of his stomach.

 

“What,” John says slowly, “the _hell_ ,” voice gone dangerously quiet, “is _that_.”  

John takes a deep breath and points to the spot on Sherlock’s throat where a purpling love bite blooms under his jaw.  Sometimes when Sherlock plays his violin for long bouts, the pressure of the chin rest against his neck encourages small bruises.  That was not the case here, John knows the difference.

“Oh, that,” Sherlock says nonchalantly, swiping his thumb across the mark and pulling the finger away to examine it, like part of the mark would have smudged off with it, “Broken blood vessels caused by oral suction.”

“A hickey.”  John surmises, eyes unable to drag themselves away from the violet bruise.

“Colloquial terminology.”  

John takes another deep breath, “You let a murderer suck on your throat and mark you up--” his voice rising in pitch and volume.

“She left the mark on all of her victims, how else was I supposed to compare the bite radius to the other--”

John ignores whatever sense that is supposed to make and launches head first into a verbal onslaught, “You let a _murderer_ suck on your _throat_! Are you mad?!”

 

He rages on and on about the great ruddy love bite.  About Sherlock having gone off without him, worrying John half to death.  Hands flinging themselves into the air, John managing to loom over Sherlock despite the disparities in height.  Sherlock’s eyes growing wider and wider in surprise at John’s outburst, and John hadn’t even noticed he’d begun crowding into Sherlock’s space, backing him up.  Sherlock’s hand shoots out against John’s chest when he touches against the wall, but John can't be arsed to notice how Sherlock’s gaze is stuck on his moving lips, and that Sherlock is letting out short, open-mouthed breaths that whisper softly against John’s cheek.  

 

John is jealous, sick with it, and every word is steeped in his profound greed to have Sherlock all to himself.  

“--and you’re not to let anyone, especially murderers, touch you!”

 John doesn’t even realise how that sounds until he's already gotten it out.  Bit not good.

“What is it to _you?”_ Sherlock challenges, his palm still a warm grounding force against John’s chest.  Spidery fingers slowly grasping into the fabric of his jumper,  “I don’t scold you like an angry parent when you come home with questionable marks.  Double standards, John? It was for a case, not my own personal enjoyment.  Why do you care at all?”

“Because you’re _mine_!” John yells in exasperation, eyes darting quickly up and down Sherlock’s body.  

 

The words are out before he can even think, they echo into the sudden silence descended between them.  

 

“Oh.”  Suddenly John becomes very aware of what he's admitted, the physical sensation of Sherlock pressed between John’s body and the wall is at once exhilarating and overwhelming.  The need to shove himself against every inch of that long body wreaking havoc in John’s blood.  He shifts on his feet, and feels Sherlock’s hips twitch, and _god,_ Sherlock is hard against John’s waist.  

John shifts again, glancing his own thickening erection off of Sherlock’s thigh, he leans forward and softly places both hands against the wall on either side of Sherlock's head.

Finally they lock sights.  Sherlock’s mouth falling open a little more, pink tongue visible behind his teeth, eyes flicking down to watch as John slowly cants his hips against that long thigh.  Sherlock’s eyes shuttered closed and he sighs John’s name, relief and arousal and curiosity married to the monosyllable.

 

It takes about half a second for John to press up on his toes and haul Sherlock down by the back of his neck and press their mouths together.  Immediately they are pawing at each other’s clothes trying to get to skin, tongues licking together, Sherlock nipping experimentally at John’s bottom lip.  And John aching with the need to substantiate his claim.  He pushes Sherlock over to the sofa, nudges him down onto it, and climbs over his body.  Sherlock’s legs immediately lock around John’s torso, and John pulls brown-black curls backward until he finds the blasted hickey and bites down over it.  He doesn't care whether or not Sherlock has done any precursory washing to the area, doesn't care if the saliva of a murderous woman still clings to his skin, he simply sucks and bites until the spot is larger, hot and violet, and Sherlock makes whimpering sounds that buzz against John’s tongue.  

 

John has never felt quite so carnally driven before, and he makes another matching bruise down a few centimeters from the first.  He wildly thinks of hiding all of Sherlock’s scarves so the marks can't be obscured from view.  Proof to others and to Sherlock alike that he's wanted, spoken for, seized up.  

 

After sucking the second bruise Sherlock is writhing all around John, whispering in his ear, asking to be fucked.  John hesitates, because _yes_ , that, but Sherlock’s virginity has been an unspoken fact between them ever since Mycroft announced it for all of Buckingham Palace to take note, months and months ago.  Definitely the sort of thing you want to be sure of before you embark on “deflowering” such a brilliant specimen.  John’s hesitation is immediately wrenched away when Sherlock turns abruptly surly and offended, mistaking John’s concern for physical reluctance.  John has to snog him to shut him up, then wrestles Sherlock’s endless limbs from around him to tug the man off the sofa and upstairs to the bedroom.  

 

John takes his time preparing Sherlock, instructing him on how to relax into the stretch, watches as his fingers disappear inside of Sherlock’s body.  He reaches for the condom he’d laid out when they’d first toppled over onto the bed, his hand hovers over it, fingers twitching.

 

“Don’t.”  Sherlock lifts up to glance where John’s downturned palm is still poised mid-air over the bit of foil wrapping.

“Sherlock..” John chastises, completely half-heartedly, out of habit.  As a conscientious lover he’s always used protection, and as a doctor he’s made a habit of regular screening.  He’s never tested positive for anything but a touch of pernicious anaemia.  He can’t explain the inexplicable need to press himself into Sherlock without barriers.  

“If you’re worried about my history of intravenous substance abuse, don’t.  That was ages ago, I've submitted to testing since, and I was never idiotic enough to share needles,” John’s brow furrows at the thought, “If I had any unsavory diseases I am sure even you would have deduced that by now.  Otherwise..  I’ve not ever done.. this.”  He finishes simply, blushing.  John swallows hard at the sight.

“What about me?”  John asks, pulling his hand away in small increments away from the square packaging.

Sherlock only scoffs and says, “Please,” as if it is the most absurd thing to have ever been suggested.    Against what should be John’s better judgement, he tears his hand away from the nightstand and plants himself between Sherlock’s legs.  

 

Originally he is only slow in the initial penetration in order to allow Sherlock time to breathe and adjust and document every bit of the experience, but now John finds himself reluctant to press all the way inward and have that part over with.  Sherlock is phenomenally hot and tight, and the swallowing friction is unfathomably gorgeous, but it is the psychical experience of actually _taking_ Sherlock, being permitted to fuck a person that brilliant, that _extraordinary_ , that fills John with electrical desire.  

 

He fills Sherlock with his cock, so achingly slow, keeps his eyes locked onto Sherlock’s, predatorily.  Daring him to look away.  Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut with a moan as John finally _finally_ allows himself to become fully seated.  When Sherlock breaks eye contact, John pulls all the way back out, listens to air huff from deep within Sherlock’s chest.  John grabs him by the hips, realigns himself, and sinks slowly back in again, then again, once more, watching Sherlock’s hole twitch and flutter around his cock.  Each jolt of pleasure equally palpable as the mental processing that ordinary, army doctor, John Watson, is sodding the impervious Sherlock Holmes.

 

Soon they are both shining with sweat.  John can not longer restrain his thrusts, and he fucks into Sherlock like both their lives depend on it.  Digs his fingers into the hollow of Sherlock’s hips and drags him onto his lap, one long leg over John’s shoulder, another heel bouncing against his spine.  Sherlock’s palm pressed flat against the headboard so as not to be rutted into it, the other twisting around his cock, wet with pre-ejaculate.  Neither can speak past broken moans, the creak of bedsprings not even registering over the race toward climax.  

 

John pulls out, flips Sherlock at the hips and lies flush against him, his fingers twisting around the front of Sherlock’s throat as he presses back into him.   Matching gasps escape the trap of their mouths.

 

John bites and kisses and sucks at every bit of pale flesh his lips can wrap around, wildly thrusting as Sherlock frots against the pillow that just moments ago had been under his hips.  John’s hand around Sherlock’s throat tightens minisculely, mostly in an effort to achieve better leverage, but it’s effect on Sherlock is obvious.  He gives a choked groan, pushes up to meet John’s thrusts, only to be slammed back down into the mattress and, “There, there, _therethere, yesdon’tstop_ , John,” and Sherlock begins shaking apart, his muscles spasming around John’s prick, propelling John from ‘on the verge of coming’ to ‘coming.’

 

Sherlock’s resonating, “ _Ah,ah,ah,”_   is all the incentive John needs to shove firmly inside of Sherlock, murmuring, “Fuck, God, _Sherlock_ I’m going to come in you,” and feel the wet pulse of his semen.  

 

John is sure to hold his weight off of Sherlock as they come down, strokes his hair, kisses along the crown of his shoulders.  

 

“I had no idea,” Sherlock pants, “that copulation with a partner could be so satisfactory.”

John laughs breathlessly, “Probably why everyone keeps doing it, I suppose.”

“I’ve come on your pillow.”  Sherlock announces, digging his hand underneath himself, then tossing the pillow aside.

“Seems so,” John licks over the bruises he’s made down Sherlock’s pale neck, and sits back to pull out.  He looks down as he extracts his softening cock, and his breath arrests at the sight of his come flowing in a slow drip out of Sherlock’s hole.

 

Sherlock begins stirring, but John places a hand in the middle of his back.  

“Be still.  Just--” John’s mouth waters a little at the sight of the whitish fluid and he clears his throat, “Hold on.”

 

Sherlock looks over his shoulder and meets John’s eyes in momentary bafflement before something like recognition rolls across his features.  The familiar blend of smugness and deduction, and he snuffles down against a pillow.

 

John swallows roughly, swipes into the come, coating the pad of his middle finger, and sweeps it back into where Sherlock is still open a little, not wanting to let any go to waste.  Two fingers dipped in, John runs them in a semicircle along the smooth skin on the inside, feeling the lingering damp heat of his ejaculate,  where a part of him is still being absorbed by Sherlock’s body.  He shivers unaccountably, a possessive thrill weaving itself into John’s subconscious.  

He wants to do that again, fill Sherlock up, an internal marker of John’s territory to match the ones on Sherlock’s neck.  He keeps running his fingers through the evidence, desire fighting against the refractory period, minutes pass and he can hear Sherlock panting.  Hormones gearing up for another round.   The newness of it all making the urge to wrap around each other that much stronger.

 

They fuck frantically, Sherlock’s arms thrown around John’s neck, foreheads pressed together as he bobs up and down on John’s cock.  

Sherlock gasping, and taking John as deeply as possible when John’s fingers dig once again into his hips, and grind down _hard_ as he spills inside of Sherlock for the second time.  Afterward Sherlock turns over onto his front and places John’s hand against his arse.  Sighing when John sinks his fingers inside of him again, allowing John to marvel at the feel of his own come inside of Sherlock’s body.

 

It's nothing that John has ever particularly found himself being riveted by in past partners.  He’s had unprotected sex within three separate monogamous relationships.  It never quite mattered where he climaxed, as long as he did climax.  

His and Sherlock’s sexual relationship deviates from John’s status quo in the best of ways.

 

Now, John always comes inside of Sherlock, _needs_ to come inside of Sherlock.  Once with Sherlock pushing John into the broom closet at a lab in Saint Bart’s, he slipped to his knees and sucked John’s cock for what seemed like ages.  Completely inexpert, and _Christ_ that was sexy.  Shouldn’t have been, John mentally rebuked himself for getting so aroused by the fact that all of Sherlock’s sexual experiments would be with him, but then just the idea had John thrusting between Sherlock’s lips and coming down his throat.  

Sherlock had quickly plucked John’s hand from where they had wrapped around a metal shelf to support himself, and took two of John’s fingers into his mouth.  A tremor ran down John’s entire body when he twitched his index finger and discovered Sherlock was still holding John’s come in his mouth.  He hummed around where John had taken up a frenetic petting pattern against Sherlock’s soft tongue, and swallowed the come away.

 

John had made an extremely embarrassing fricative sound, and surged downward to push Sherlock down against the cold tile and return the favor with extreme enthusiasm.  

 

Upon leaving the broom closet they were immediately faced with a furiously blushing DI Lestrade with a handful of files.   His eyes widened at Sherlock’s utterly fucked appearance.  His shock of curls more susceptible to acts of debauchery, lips red.  All John’s doing.  John preened a little at the thought as Sherlock gave a lopsided smile and swept out of the room, files in hand.  

 

\---

 

John pushes Sherlock’s shoulders down against the bench, slender fingers knock against his microscope.  The thing jostles and is shifted to the side, would be terrible to knock it over again.  John had to pay for the repairs last time, and bugger making that mistake twice.  A empty slide falls onto the rug.  John sets his hand softly to the small of Sherlock’s back and begins sliding it up, rucking the black silk button down in the process.  Pale skin slowly becomes exposed to the slight draft in 221B, Sherlock shivers into John’s touch.  His fingers spread and flex, nails scratching softly at the grooves in the wood.  

 John’s moulds the sensitive skin of his wrist to each notch in Sherlock’s spine, flattens his palm until his fingers are fisted into the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  Sable curls weave between his fingers, encircling his knuckles in five individual rings.  John takes a moment to look away to Sherlock’s face, his lashes flutter closed when John’s grip in his hair tightens.  Pink rises into his cheeks, top teeth pressed softly into the full bottom lip.  

 

Undeniably gorgeous.  Everyone knows it.  Sherlock’s body is completely unfair, elegant and lissome, a fine pedigree of masculinity and grace.  The physical appeal is obvious. It’s the entire package of Sherlock Holmes that drives John to bend him over the table, throw him into bed, shove him up against the wall with a bump, press him down into the sofa with Sherlock’s long legs hooked around his waist.  Sherlock whispering John’s name as John sucks bruises down his bared throat.

 

Sherlock’s _mind_ though, it’s a brilliant work of priceless art and John doesn’t forget it, not for one second.  

 

“What have you got on, here?”  John asks, reaching his free hand to Sherlock’s front, begins unbuckling his trousers.  “Nothing corrosive, I hope.”  

 

Sherlock’s breath stutters when John thumbs open the button, pushes the zip down with his entire palm.  “Trifluoroacetic acid,” a soft gasp as John pushes his trousers and pants down in one movement over his buttocks to pool around his ankles.  

 

Acid, always with the acid.  They ought to buy litmus paper in bulk.  John sighs, smooths his hands down Sherlock’s flank in teasing brushes, “Please Christ, tell me it’s stored properly.”  

 

“Yes,” Sherlock’s answer hitches when John abruptly grabs him by the hips and grinds Sherlock against his lap,” _Huhh_ , right, yes.  Testing it on various epidermal samples,” a quiet moan when he hears John flipping the cap to the lubricant John cleared from his pocket, “S’ for an experiment.”

 

John continues to hold Sherlock down with a forearm, pours the viscous substance over his fingers before reaching down to press his index finger against Sherlock’s arsehole.  He rubs in circles before attempting to press inward, just the one finger for several seconds.  Sherlock begins to shift his feet and huffs derisively, tries to pick his head up to yell at John for his slowness.  John sees it all begin to happen in front of him, was waiting patiently for it, and in an instant his hand cups around the scruff of Sherlock’s neck.  Pushes his cheek roughly back against the table, quickly adds his middle digit, thrusts his hips with each keen of his fingers.  John smiles to himself when he hears Sherlock swear, his nails scrabbling against the tabletop again.

 

“So, what’s the chemical composition of Trifluoroacetic acid?”  John asks casually, changes the angle of his wrist and allows a finger to brush over Sherlock’s prostate.  Dark curls bounce about as his back arches off the table, John nudges with his finger again and this elicits a gasping, “Ah!”

“Sherlock..”

“Just uhh, CF3C -- _Fuck_ \--O2 H,” comes the whispered answer before more soft babbling starts, as if Sherlock’s encyclopaedic mind is on autopilot while his body seeks its own release.  “Reagent, best utilised in organic synthesis.  Fucking, um, ion pairing agent, liquid chromatography..”

 

John shivers a little, does quick work of his own pants, grasping his cock and slicking it up.  He lines himself against Sherlock’s hole, dips slowly in up to the fraenulum and holds there. Uses a finger to trace where they’re joined.  Gorgeous.

 

He pulls nearly all the way out again, the very tip still being swallowed up.  Sherlock’s disappointed whine faintly reaches John’s ears.  

 

This is bit John adores.  Always takes his time. He keeps his hand wrapped around the base of his prick, moves his hips in small, shivery, bursts, completely absorbed by the act of slowly invading his way into Sherlock.  Sherlock’s body gradually stretching, accommodating John in such an intimate manner, being wholly claimed as John’s.  Only his.  John has never felt so covetous of past lovers, but something about Sherlock strikes John squarely in the evolutionary instinct that drives him to possess the man completely.  Stake his claim. Protect him at all costs.  Love him better than anyone else could hope to.  

 

“Tell me more,” John suggests, because it’s always worth it to hear Sherlock overwhelmed with sensation and information simultaneously.  John slips the head of his cock in and out of Sherlock’s hole a few times before beginning to push deeper.

 

What comes out is a hushed string of what seems to be mostly numbers, a gasping recitation of boiling points, molar mass, and density, hydrolysis equations that Sherlock balances without a single pause in data.  And God, he’s brilliant.  Other men might get off on dirty talk, but for John there’s nothing even as comparably sexy as the crystalline quality of Sherlock’s mind and sheer amount of comprehensive acuity ingrained inside of it.  Sherlock’s extreme brand of individuality; it doesn’t seem fair for the rest of the world that John should have him all to himself.

John can’t be bothered by the “rest of the world.”  

 

By average definition, John is fairly ordinary man.  Intelligent for sure, but not a genius.  Visually unintimidating, an alpha personality without being outrightly aggressive.  The mere concept that he’s the one being allowed to fill Sherlock up, the only person ever having been allowed to touch the prodigious Sherlock Holmes in this way, the thought alone is nearly enough to propel John into coming.  

John slides back in as slowly as he can stand, watching his cock being engulfed by Sherlock’s body.  

 

Sherlock begins pushing back with his elbows, helping John along with those desperate noises he tends to make.  

 

They fuck slowly and deliberately, John making a point to draw completely out a few times before setting a rhythm that will have them both coming.  He reaches down to Sherlock’s cock and begins to thumb the tip, plays with the foreskin, until Sherlock comes with an indecent groan and spills hotly over John’s clenched fist.  

 

The remaining tremors following the initial orgasm cause Sherlock’s hole to clutch where John thrusts slickly.  He doubles over in pleasure, forehead to curve of Sherlock’s back, and feels the sultry pulse of his ejaculate beating its way inside Sherlock’s arse.  

 

They wait for their breathing to slow, John threading his fingers over the tops of Sherlock’s hands.  His eyes drifting up to the yellowing marks of a fading love bite. John will have to remedy that as soon as possible.  He kisses his absolute favorite spot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, pulls out slowly, replaces his prick with a finger and feels the proof of what they’ve just done together.

 

“I’m yours too, you know,” John assures Sherlock, just in case there’s any doubt, just so there’s absolutely no confusing the matter, “Every bit of me.”  He pulls Sherlock up and around, kisses him softly.

 

“I know,” Sherlock murmurs against his lips.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> So. I porn'd as a celebration of the new season of Sherlock. Porn.. so much porn. All the porn.


End file.
